


the subjectivity of pain

by pyrrhic_victory



Series: dangerous sentiments [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Autistic Julian Bashir, Chronic Pain, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e23 Crossover, Internalised ableism, M/M, Secret Relationship, they sure have a lot of issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21880828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhic_victory/pseuds/pyrrhic_victory
Summary: Garak's headaches get worse as he readjusts to losing the wire, and Julian struggles with old feelings of alienation - while both of them try to figure out where their relationship is going.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: dangerous sentiments [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576258
Comments: 32
Kudos: 245





	the subjectivity of pain

Garak woke in the middle of the night to a freezing room and excruciating pain in his skull. He tried to reach for the pills on the side table, but quickly discovered he couldn’t move his head without the room lurching and threatening to make him throw up.

Slowly, he tried again, blindly reaching out and fumbling with them before choking them down with a gulp of water. Julian had refused to allow him access to anything like the stuff he’d taken before. Something to do with pain medication and susceptibility to addiction. 

This was an unfortunate part of his life now. But the first headaches he’d had post-withdrawal had been alarming enough that he’d returned to the infirmary of his own volition. 

“The implant hasn’t reactivated,” Julian assured him, after scanning him. “Fortunately, the headache is just your brain readjusting.” 

“Can’t it readjust a little more quietly?” Garak griped, keeping his eyes narrow and avoiding looking up. The lights were far too bright in there. 

“How bad is it? Scale of one to ten.” 

“That’s a very inaccurate system, doctor. A ten for me might be a three for you.”

“Pain is subjective. What matters is how it affects you, not how it might affect someone else.” Garak blinked at him, at the complete simplicity of the words set out in a way he’d never quite considered. His low tolerance for pain was the reason he’d been given the wire in the first place, and he’d always been somewhat ashamed of that. 

“What an odd sentiment.”

“Let me try a different medication,” Julian said, getting up and searching through the storage cabinets. “I’m still trying to find other painkillers that work with Cardassian neurochemistry.” 

“Ah, triptacederine is very effective, I believe. Though my own supply seems to have gone missing.” He made a very pointed look at Julian, who said nothing. 

“It’s also very addictive.” 

Garak scoffed, raising his hand just briefly to his head. “A trifling detail.” 

“It might seem like the easy solution now, but in the long run it’ll be better for you not to have access to that kind of medication. At least for now, when you’re still recovering.” 

He sighed, but Julian was, of course, correct. He didn’t want to be dependent on anything again. Julian handed him a new set of pills and a glass of water. Instinctively, he wanted to refuse a drink he hadn’t prepared himself, but there was little point mistrusting Julian, so he took the medication.

“We’ll wait a few hours and see if there are any side-effects, and then I’ll let you take a few days’ supply of it.” 

Perhaps he’d been too trusting. “You mean you don’t know if there are side-effects?” 

“In humans and Bajorans, it’s known to cause fatigue and nightmares. But I don’t exactly have a wealth of Cardassian patients, Garak.” 

“Perhaps that’s for the best, if you take such an experimental attitude to all your treatments.” 

Julian raised his eyebrows. 

“I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t all so private about your anatomy.”

“On the contrary, I’d be happy to teach you anything you’d like to know about my anatomy, doctor.”

That had flustered him quite charmingly.

Now, all Garak could do was lay very still and ride out the pain. The shivering got into his head and made it worse. The sickness faded, little by little, and he was able to move without retching. The dim lights on the wall panel hurt his eyes as badly the blinding white fluorescence on the promenade usually did. He squinted at the time: 0432. Two hours until he had to get up. Two hours to get this under control. 

He was very tempted to slump back into bed and stay there. What was the point in opening his shop, really? What was the point of any of this? Perhaps if he just stayed here and wallowed Julian would come looking and bring a nice strong hypospray to make this all go away. 

But if he waited here for that, that would mean he’d given up. That would mean he’d become dependent on something else. That would mean admitting he’d really, properly destroyed himself. Right now, he needed to prove he could survive this. What use would Cardassia have for a man cowering in bed, ruined by his own misery, afraid of the light? Somewhere, Tain was laughing. 

He turned the lights up to ten percent and his head felt like it was splitting apart. Twenty, and he was nearly sick. They stayed at twenty for a long time, and he risked taking another dose of the weak painkiller. It wasn’t supposed to be taken again so soon, but Julian had probably allowed him several doses because he knew he’d abuse it anyway. 

He could crawl up to fifty percent before he was gasping, leaning over with his head his hands as though he could pour out the pain into them. 

_You did this to yourself. You thought living on this station was punishment before? You thought that was torture? You got yourself so high you barely knew you were here. This is torture._

Slowly, reluctantly, his brain stopped thudding quite so angrily against his skull, and he was able to turn the lights up again. He couldn’t face the promenade until he could face this. 

More than anything, he wanted to drown himself in the soft mellowness the implant had given the world. He’d give anything just to be free of the pain and emptiness and desolation that it had left behind. Surely he hadn’t felt this hopeless before. Surely he’d been stronger than this. 

_You did this to yourself._

_That was quite stupid of you, wasn’t it?_

_I didn’t train you to be so weak, Elim._

He growled to cut out the voice and forced himself out of bed. He could do this. He’d survived every other misery in his life and he’d survive this too. 

At lunch, he'd more or less got the pain under control.

Julian looked as beautiful as ever, and now Garak didn’t have any guilt at all about acknowledging it to himself while they ate. (Not that he‘d felt much shame about it before, either.) Julian was talking, as he usually was, explaining some ceremony he had to attend in the Gamma Quadrant. 

“So I’ll be on New Bajor most of tomorrow.” 

“And you say Major Kira is accompanying you to open this hospital?” 

“Yes. I’m glad, actually. It’ll give us a chance to talk. I don’t think we got off on the right foot when I arrived.” It was a pity the Major didn’t appreciate Julian the way he did. She seemed to find him annoying, rather than charming, though Julian hadn’t noticed. Perhaps Garak was biased, since he enjoyed many things about Julian. 

“I can’t imagine why. You’ll be back in the evening, then?” 

“Yes, I will.” 

Julian did everything short of wink at him. It had been four- no, five times now in the last two weeks that one of them had crept into the other’s quarters by prior covert arrangement. 

“Excellent. I’ve arranged to procure an accurate Standard translation of _By the Greying Dust_ by Lakain that will be ready for you by then.” 

“Would this be an example of that liberal Cardassian literature you mentioned, Garak?”

“Oh, extremely liberal. Lakain was exiled as soon as the Ministry of Arts got a look at the manuscript, and it was withheld from publication until eighty years after his death because it was so scandalous.”

“Oh? Scandalous how?” 

“I think I’ll let you work that out for yourself, doctor.” There was no need for Julian to know quite yet that it was an infamous work of political erotica. 

Julian shovelled a heavy forkful of some tasteless Earth monstrosity into his mouth. 

“I’ve got something to give you, too. _1984_ , by George Orwell. It’s a novel about a pre-warp dystopian future on Earth where everyone is controlled and monitored by the state.”

Garak raised his eye-ridges. Sometimes Julian could be dreadfully obvious about what he thought of Cardassia. 

“How ingenious. At least some of your authors have the good sense to consider proper systems of governance.” 

“That’s not what the message of the book is supposed to be.” 

“Oh, I doubt that’s what he intended. But human authors rarely grasp the real message of their work. You seem to find it far too difficult to see beyond the bounds of your own culture.”

Julian raised his eyebrows at him in disbelief. “Garak, you can’t really believe Cardassians are any good at seeing beyond the bounds of their own culture.” 

“But of course. How else would we have created such a successful empire? Was it not your Sun Tzu who said ‘if you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles’?“

Julian looked exasperated. 

“You know that’s not what I meant. He’s talking about military strategy, not honest cultural exchange and understanding.”

Oh, it was like Julian said these things just to set himself up. 

“My dear doctor, war is the most honest cultural exchange there is.” 

Julian spent the rest of his lunch hour arguing against that point, which was exactly what he’d hoped for, and when the time came to go he was beyond exasperated. 

Garak rose with him. 

”I hope you drop by with this fascinating novel tomorrow evening, doctor, and perhaps you can better explain your notion of a peaceful cultural exchange.”

Julian glared, but always fondly. 

It was frankly embarrassing how often Garak thought of him in the next 26 hours. 

The fact that Julian enjoyed his company was truly confusing, and even more confusing than that was that he wanted him more intimately than a conversation at lunch. Being wanted, having someone he could actually please instead of appease, that was dangerous after so much time alone.

 _You’re getting dependent._ Muttered Quark’s hideous jacket beneath his hands. 

“I’m not allowed to look forward to sex?” He muttered back. 

_Sex is the least part of it. You’re getting sentimental, Garak._

“Oh, shut up.” 

Quark’s jacket was right. (And the worst of it was that it spoke in Quark’s voice.) He was looking forward to just speaking to Julian, to hearing what he had to say about Preloc, to arguing with him about it. 

He couldn’t do a damn thing about how invested he was. Julian was the only friend he had here, and he couldn’t pull back just because he was afraid of being attached. In this state, he’d go insane without someone to talk to. 

_That’s because you’re already attached._

“I’m just passing the time.” 

This was just a foolish obsession with the only person who’d been kind to him in his exile. 

_You know it’s not._

In the afternoon, Julian waved at him across the promenade with a broad smile and it was like feeling sunshine on his scales after two years of artificial space-station air.

_It won’t last._

He knew that. He knew Julian had a short attention span when it came to these things. This was a passing infatuation for him, if that. And then it would be over. 

_It’s safer that way._

Thoughts about Tain circled thoughts about Julian and plucked them out like a man spearing fish in a river. If the Order found out about this ridiculous affection... well, he’d learned a nasty lesson from Palandine about what would happen then.

The advantage of having nothing was that he had nothing to lose.

The next day, he monitored the situation in Ops innocently enough. He wasn’t meant to be in the systems, of course, but he intended only to check when the runabout returned from the Gamma Quadrant, to know when to expect Julian. But the evening hours crawled by and the runabout did not return. 

They sent another runabout to look. 

There was talk of a radiation leak from the warp core. 

Vessels from either side found neither the first runabout nor any debris that indicated a fatal explosion. It had simply vanished. 

He did not worry about Dr Bashir. His head hurt, so he took his painkillers. He kept sewing. 

He closed the shop for the evening, went to Quark’s and watched the crowd. 

The constant noise of the dabo wheels was murder on his delicate headache, and the press of the crowd became claustrophobic after a while. He had two leisurely glasses of kanar, careful not to betray his discomfort externally, and took the rest of the bottle back to his quarters to cut through the communications network to Ops and watch the rest of the reports come in. 

Another vessel went through the wormhole, found nothing and returned. 

He finished the kanar. 

_You’re getting predictable_ , the bottle told him. _You swapped one pathetic addiction for another, and now that’s gone you’ve taken up yet another_. 

“No-one asked you,” he informed it. He had no intention of becoming morose about this. So what if Bashir was dead? He’d not invested himself. He was cleverer than that now. He had survived before the young doctor’s affection, and he would survive just as well afterwards.

Kanar didn’t feel as good as the implant, which was probably for the best, but it welcomed him like an old friend. It dulled the pain in his head, and the rest of his senses with it, and slowed his thoughts so he couldn’t quite catch the dangerous ones before they lodged themselves in his mind. 

He was so tired. 

A side-effect of the medication.

Sleep, however, frequently eluded him. So he looked up the book Bashir had recommended in the station’s computer, _1984_. It was famous enough to be in Starfleet’s library systems. 

Half way through the book he was shaking. There was so much potential for a proper argument here, and Bashir had gone and died and that was really quite inconsiderate of him, how dare he?

He couldn’t sit still anymore. 

Replicated kanar was often revolting. The Federation engineers had done something to the replicators, and now it had a plasticy taste behind the sweetness that made it difficult to stomach for long. His tastebuds had checked out after the end of the bottle he’d got from Quark’s, so he was better able to tolerate it. 

_Bashir would be disappointed._

“Unless he comes back here to be disappointed in person, I don’t much care.”

_Tain would be disappointed._

“There’s nothing new in that.” 

_Mila would be disappointed._

“Would you be quiet?” 

He slumped into bed when it became impossible to focus his eyes on the book. The room tilted and he covered his eyes to block it out. He’d had quite enough of that. 

Terribly rude of Bashir to die now, really. He ought to have left a note or something.. 

Consciousness blurred past him and he tried to cast it off entirely. He shifted through states of liquid matter, the air around him thick, his face numb, his body too big and too small for the emotion it was trying to contain.

He’d known this was possible. He’d tried to steel himself against this exact thing. And yet here he was again, mourning someone who might not be dead, but may as well be for all the good it did Garak, alone on a freezing station with nothing but bad kanar and a dwindling supply of latinum to pay for it. 

He took more painkillers to brace against the hangover he was bound to give himself, and when sleep came, it found him huddled in bed, staring out of the viewport, searching for the wormhole.

### ***

They barely escaped the other universe. And when he stepped off the runabout into the bright, cool atmosphere of DS9, crowded by Sisko and Dax and O’Brien, all he wanted was a hot shower and a clean bed. He was given the next three days off - apparently being trapped in a parallel universe qualified as a traumatic experience - and the first morning was spent debriefing. 

After that, he went straight back to his quarters, avoiding the promenade. (Which happened to be where Garak’s shop was, but that was entirely irrelevant.) 

He could still smell the coal and the sweat of the other workers, and the odd scent of burnt metal that haunted the whole of Terok Nor. 

The other Kira had been strikingly different from her counterpart, and the difference was so striking as to render them completely separate in his mind. But the other Garak? That was more difficult. 

He was still trying to come to terms with the implications of a relationship with someone who had Garak’s past. Maybe if he told the truth about the things he'd done, it would be easier to reconcile. All Julian had to go on were vague stories. Impressions of events that might have happened, but not in the way he'd described. 

To an extent, Julian believed Garak was as much a product of his culture as anyone else. Feed a child stories of duty and service to the state and that’s what they’ll grow up believing. He did what he did for a home he loved so much he’d almost lost his mind with grief at being separated from it.

If he was going to do this, he had to accept that he'd never know what Garak had done and why, and trust that who he was now was better than who he'd been then. 

Garak would probably tell him that was foolish.

Julian had barely recovered from the morning debriefing - and had only just started on the weirdest moral quandary of his sex life - when he got a chime at the door. Garak was there, an unreadable emotion on his face as his analytical gaze swept over him. 

Julian had barely let him in when he started ranting. 

“I read that Earth novel you suggested, doctor, and I see now exactly where your problem lies.”

Julian had to step back. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You, like the rest of the Federation, believe Cardassians are a naive, cruel people, so blinded by propaganda that every last one of us is a fool who must either be freed of our chains by the kind, noble hand of the Federation or utterly destroyed. You cannot conceive that there are good, intelligent people just like you among the war criminals and torturers and blind slaves of the monstrous state, good people who are proud to serve the same ideals as they do!”

Garak was staring, vicious, ignited by passion that only ever sprang up for Cardassia.

His back still hurt from pushing the cart in ore processing. In short: he was not in the mood for this.

“Garak, I'm sorry, but I’ve had a dreadful couple of days. Can we please argue about this later?”

The anger dissolved like paint being stripped from a wall, to be replaced with complete confusion. 

“You...don’t wish to argue?” 

“No, I really don’t.”

Garak’s expression had suddenly become sheepish, contrite. 

“Ah. Well, I apologise.” Why on Earth did he think Julian would _want_ to yell at him at full volume out of nowhere? “I hear you’ve been on quite the adventure.”

“That’s one word for it,” Julian blankly said. 

There was a data-rod held out in front of him. 

“ _By the Greying Dust_ , as promised.” 

Garak wasn’t looking at him.

“Oh. Um, thanks?”

“You’re most welcome. I can only hope it will be more to your liking than Preloc, though your approval will hardly rate the work.” 

Julian held the cool data-rod loosely in a fist, completely baffled.

“Now look here, Garak. If you're upset with me, you can just say so. I really didn’t have much of a say in not turning up last night, you know.” 

Garak gave a sort of hopeless gesture. If Cardassians could blush, he would have been. 

“No, no, of course not. I was aware of the situation. I read the reports when the runabout went missing.” 

“You did what?” 

“Oh, don’t look so scandalised. It was hardly classified information.” 

Julian stared at him, putting the pieces together. 

“You knew I was missing.” 

Garak clicked his tongue impatiently, still looking embarrassed but veering back towards irritation to cover it up. 

“Yes, obviously. Isn’t that what I just said?” 

Now Julian examined him properly, he looked exhausted. His eyes were a little red, the shadows beneath them darker than usual.

“And you knew when the debriefing finished. And you’ve already read _1984_.”

“Well, I haven’t quite finished it yet. I do have a shop to maintain, you know.” 

“But you came here to argue about it anyway.” 

“All I wanted was to disabuse you of this ridiculous notion you seem to have developed that Cardassians are unwilling servants of our own-“ 

Julian hugged him. Garak stiffened immediately in shock, like he was being attacked. 

“Ah- doctor?” 

“You absolute idiot.”

“Excuse me?” 

“I’m alright.”

“Yes, I can see that.” 

He still sounded alarmed, but Julian didn’t let go.

“You could have just said you were worried. You know, like a normal person,” Julian teased. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.” Holding him was comforting and nice, and a bit funny considering how confused Garak seemed to be by the concept of hugging.

“I merely came by for some stimulating discussion about literature,” Garak said, deliberately casual. His voice vibrated pleasantly in Julian’s chest.

“Mm hmm. Of course you did.”

Slowly, Garak sighed, relaxed so he was somewhat less rigid than a concrete block, and patted him on the back. Julian finally took pity on him and released him.

“I heard the commander gave you three days’ leave,” Garak said, looking at him with a touch of concern. 

“You ‘heard’?” Julian repeated, dubious.

“Always so mistrustful. I’ve been a good influence on you.” He patted Julian’s arm briefly, still uncertain about those kinds of touches. “I’d better leave you to your rest.”

”You don’t have to go. I mean, I am tired,” Julian quickly said. He didn’t feel capable of much vigorous activity right now. “So I’m probably just going to read this now, actually-“ he gestured with the rod. 

“I have an hour before a fitting appointment. I could read the beginning to you, if you’d like?” 

Julian smiled. “Yes. I’d like that.” 

He settled at the head of the bed once he’d transferred the book to a padd, with Garak sitting at the foot. It was almost surreal, the exiled spy who’d stormed in ranting at him was now sitting on his bed and reading to him like his mother used to when he was a child. Before he knew the truth. 

“Are you quite comfortable?” 

“Very.” 

“Excellent.” Garak cleared his throat and began. 

_“There was a line of dust on the floor of Legate Kar’s office. It was visible only once a day, when the sun had passed west of the great tower and the afternoon was red. Gul Martilla often took notice of it when he visited, but it was only today that he realised that the line was not made of dust, but sunlight, and the whole patch of floor by the window was dust.”_

“This is the start?” Julian interrupted. 

Garak gave him a sharp, disapproving look. “Page one, my dear doctor.” 

“Huh. I just thought there’d be more, you know. Family trees, proselytising about the state.” He winced when remembered how irritated Garak had been about ten minutes earlier about his assumptions about Cardassia. Garak just raised his brow ridges. 

“I did say this was a liberal work, did I not? Now, where was I? Ah, yes."

They didn’t get very far, because Julian kept getting sidetracked with questions and Garak started to annotate seemingly insignificant details, instructing Julian to remember them for later. But from what he could tell, _By the Greying Dust_ was not like the other Cardassian novels Garak had given him. There was war in the background and the typical mantra of service to the state, but the romance was almost recognisable as romance. And the romance was between two men - Legate Kar and the loyal Gul Martilla. 

Garak had to leave before they got much further than that, so Julian kept reading alone. The characters felt real. He cared about Martilla’s conflict between his career, his fraught relationship with Kar and the mounting evidence that Kar had tortured an innocent politician to death. 

Despite the grim contents, he felt a lot better than he had that morning. 

Julian occupied himself reading while he waited for evening. The great tragedy of the book was Legate Kar’s final betrayal. He had a choice: expose himself, or blame Martilla for the prisoner’s wrongful death. And he chose to blame Martilla. And Martilla, because he loved Kar so dearly, did not defend himself. The final lines had him staring into Kar’s eyes before his execution. 

_What good would it do now to throw off my chains and declare Kar the criminal? Kar is the leader Cardassia needs, not I. He is by far the greater man, and I am a servant below him. When he commanded me to fight, I fought. When he commanded me to kneel, I knelt. And now he has commanded me to die, I die._

He read the final lines over and over again, wondering what about it had been so liberal that the author had been exiled and the book banned. Perhaps the suggestion that Central Command could be corrupt, and a corrupt man could go unpunished. Perhaps simply that it had dispensed of so much of the ceremonial formality of the Cardassian classics. Perhaps the strongly implied relationship between the two men - he didn’t know how Cardassians viewed same-sex relationships.

Which brought him back to his own. 

He had a bad habit of being too shallow and too deep at once. He threw himself in the deep end without thinking, committed himself to the idea of a relationship far too quickly, and only realised what had gone wrong when someone pointed it out over several drinks, or when he had the hindsight of several years behind him. 

But with Garak, it didn’t feel like that. They’d thrown themselves straight into something intense, yes, but they already knew each other well enough that it didn’t feel like infatuation so much as sudden, but natural, intimacy. It would be difficult to just be infatuated with him after seeing him through withdrawal.

That was supposed to be the test of a relationship, wasn’t it? Getting through the ugly parts? 

But Garak hadn’t seen the ugly parts of him. 

He trudged out of bed and into Quark’s to see if any of the senior staff had finished their shifts yet. Miles was there, and Julian quickly regaled him with tales of the other Miles O’Brien. 

“I wonder where the universes diverge. How does it work out that we end up being born the exact same people, and being called the same things, yet our parents have lived completely different lives? I think it would have been fascinating to meet another version of myself,” Julian said. 

He wondered if that universe had the same attitude to genetic engineering as this one. The Terrans surely wouldn’t have had access to the procedures he’d had. Would the other him still be Jules? Would he be normal?

“I think one of you’s more than enough,” Miles said, with a worried look.

“Oh, I know what you mean. That’s a common reaction to seeing your double, actually. There’s a lot of old stories where seeing a doppelgänger is a premonition of death. It’s a really interesting cross-cultural phenomenon that has this fascinating basis in psychoanalytic theory that I was reading about a few years ago-“

“Like I said,” Miles interrupted. “One of you’s more than enough.” 

Julian swallowed his next words along with a mouthful of his drink, and blamed that for the odd burning in his throat. 

He couldn’t help but feel lonely, sometimes. He had plenty of people to talk to. It was just that he wasn’t that close to any of them, and not many seemed interested in changing that. The nurses were friendly enough, and he liked talking to Dax when he got called to Ops. (Now he’d turned trying to flirt with her into something of a joke, it was easier.) Chief O’Brien even seemed to be warming up to him lately. Sort of. 

But it was like every other time in his life where he’d had to start over and make a good impression - it didn’t seem to have worked. He didn’t know what he was doing wrong. What did Dax have that made her so easy to befriend? How did O’Brien get such a camaraderie going with the engineers under his command? There was a disconnect between him and the others, no matter how eagerly he tried to cross the gap. 

So, because his life was incredibly strange and he’d made some odd decisions in the past year, the person he felt closest to on this joint Bajoran-Starfleet space station was the exiled Cardassian spy who was more ambiguous and less accessible than the rest of the station put together. 

They were at lunch a few days later, which Garak insisted on limiting to only a few days a week. Julian would happily have shared lunch with him every day he was free, but Garak was adamant on being subtle with what they had, and subtlety meant not suddenly spending every free minute with- with the man he was sleeping with? He still didn’t know what word to apply to Garak, who looked expectantly across at him. 

“Sorry, what was that?” 

Boyfriend? He was too old for that, surely.

“I merely asked what you thought of Kar’s decision to frame Martilla in _By The Greying Dust_. Is something troubling you, doctor?” 

Partner? Too serious, it had only been a few weeks.

“No, I’m alright. Long morning, that’s all.” 

Lover? Maybe. It sounded a bit strange. 

“Difficult patients?” 

“Difficult paperwork. It feels like half my job is checking shipments of medical supplies and signing off on staff rotas.”

Garak took on his usual lecturing tone. “That is the price of rank. One must tolerate a great deal of bureaucracy for the sake of a little authority.” 

“Speaking from experience, Garak?” 

“Merely an observation. There is very little rank to be obtained in tailoring.”

Julian shot him a look of fond exasperation.

He didn’t want to talk about the cold spike of loneliness that had mounted up at work recently. 

He didn’t mean to be annoying. He couldn’t even tell when it was happening. All he wanted was to talk to people about interesting things. Usually things they’d just mentioned an interest in, yet whenever he did they closed off and brushed him away, or else nodded politely, or gently made fun of him. 

Not for the first time, he wondered whether his difficulty with people was something they’d broken when he was genetically enhanced, or something left over from Jules. 

Garak was frowning at his tray. 

“Something wrong?”

“Hm? Oh, I just don’t have the appetite for dessert. Would you like some?” 

It was Julian’s favourite. He had told Garak this seven months, two weeks and six days ago, and not mentioned it since. 

“Oh, if you’re sure. Thanks.” 

Garak slid the plate over and returned to his tea. 

“It’s no trouble. In fact, you’re doing me a favour. I’ve always found unnecessary waste to be very distasteful.” 

Julian dug into the pudding, and smiled to himself. Garak wasn’t always as subtle as he thought he was.

#### ***

There was something wrong with Julian. Anyone with a pair of eyes and a working brain could see it, since he wore every emotion so obviously. As for what it was - that required more digging. 

Garak asked him carefully about the trip to the mirror universe: no significant stress. He asked about the immunology project he’d been doing on Bajor: no significant stress. He asked about his patients: more conflicted emotions, but no significant stress. He asked him if his friends were well: deliberately casual answer. Further discussion avoided when subject sat on his lap. 

Something to do with the senior officers, then. But what to do about it? He couldn’t talk to them directly. And it would be best to not mention the doctor too frequently in public - anyone might be listening. If Tain knew what he was doing he’d laugh himself out of retirement and have Julian killed just to put Garak in his place again. Or worse yet - have Garak kill him. 

He’d already feared for Julian’s life once, and he didn’t want to taste that particular feeling again.

_You never learn, do you, Elim?_

He still needed to know what was wrong, of course. A straight interrogation lacked art, but Julian wasn’t a good liar. He might get to the bottom of things quickly. 

Fatigue was supposedly another long-term symptom of withdrawal, and a side-effect of the painkillers he resented having to take. He was constantly exhausted. He’d already drunk more coffee in the past few days than anyone ever should. He didn’t want to risk dosing himself with anything else in this state. Only kanar and Julian’s occasional nighttime visits turned the exhaustion into a pleasant kind of sleepiness.

He kept an eye on the doors in Quark’s, nursing a drink and a mild headache. The painkillers weren’t working as well as he hoped, but visiting the infirmary too often for more would draw attention to them and risk exposing their...whatever it was. Affair, perhaps. That made it sound rather more scandalous than it was. Relationship? 

This was difficult.

He’d only ever been in this position once, with Palandine, and it had been so different that he couldn’t compare the two. All she and Bashir had in common was that he wasn’t supposed to be in love with them.

Not that he was in love with the doctor. 

He didn’t want to be dependent on the medication, either. Not that being dependent on kanar was much better, but he wasn’t half as likely to fall in love with Quark as he was Bashir.

Not that he was going to fall in love with him.

After about an hour of careful people-watching, the doctor’s lanky frame appeared between the doors.

“Hey, Garak! Keeping an eye on things?” Julian looked far too pleased to see him, as usual. 

“Would you care to join me?” 

“Sure. I’ll just get a drink.” 

He half-watched Julian slip through the crowd to the bar. (There’s a trick to watching while not looking like one is watching - just in case one is being watched.) Major Kira and Lieutenant Dax shared a table nearby, and he stopped to chat to them while Quark mixed his drink. Some awful cocktail, no doubt. Garak monitored their expressions carefully. Julian: tired, earnest. Kira: tolerant, impatient. Dax: amused, diplomatic. The women exchanged a knowing look after Julian left. 

“Ah, that can only be some human monstrosity.” Garak wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant-looking drink in Julian’s hand, a red concoction with some kind of root vegetable sticking out of it. 

“Guilty as charged. It’s called a Bloody Mary. Usually drunk as a hangover cure, but I like to practice preventative medicine.” 

“Ah. Is that the purpose of the vegetable?”

“It’s just celery. Want to try it?” 

“I’d rather not.” 

“Suit yourself.”

Julian cast a glance back and Garak swept in.

“How are Major Kira and Lieutenant Dax?” 

“Oh, we were just talking about this holosuite programme Dax has been trying to get Kira to do,” Julian said, and did not elaborate. He might have thought he was being subtle. But had Julian been in a good mood, he would have continued on to explain said programme in intricate, enthusiastic detail. 

One of the things he most appreciated about Bashir was the way he talked about the things he was excited about. Other people seemed to find his rambling grating or inconsiderate. Garak did often find himself drifting away from the technical jargon he flung out when he was talking about his research, but his honest passion was alien and refreshing after a lifetime of speaking to cold masks.

“Forgive me if I’m intruding, doctor, but is there some rift between you and your friends that I am unaware of?”

He shook his head too quickly to be genuine. “No, no. Nothing like that.“ 

“But there is _something_.” Julian stirred the celery around the rim of the glass, and did not answer. “You have been rather... withdrawn, of late.” 

He looked up sharply, suddenly looking guilty. “I have? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be.” 

Garak held up a hand to stop him apologising. That hadn’t been his intention. “I merely meant that I have noticed there is something on your mind. Something to do with your friends, perhaps.” 

A Cardassian would have laughed at his bluntness. This was not the way people did things at home. But he was not home, and he found that Julian often required directness. He stared into his drink. 

“It’s nothing. It’s stupid.” Garak kept quiet. Often the best way to tease out a confession was to give them a silence to fill. “I don’t think they really like me very much, that’s all.” 

“Your friends?” 

“Are they my friends? Sometimes I feel like they just tolerate me because they don’t have a choice.” 

That was it? He didn’t think his Starfleet friends liked him very much? Garak bit back a sarcastic comment, solely because it was Julian sitting in front of him. 

“Has something happened to lead you to this conclusion?” 

“Nothing in particular, no. I suppose once you start noticing something it’s impossible to stop.” 

“Hm. And I thought Starfleet officers were supposed to treat each other with equal respect.” 

“They do! It’s not that serious, Garak. I’m just being a bit wet.”

“...wet?” That was a term he’d not heard applied to an attitude or mood.

“Whiny, childish. Look, just forget I said anything.” 

Garak’s initial response was to agree. He would have never survived exile if he hadn’t suppressed the desire to be liked. 

And in his old life, it had been dangerous to grow attached. Everyone wore a mask. He’d been paralysed with loneliness for years, spending more time talking to his orchids than people. He used to follow strangers on the street and take on their habits, even pretend to have their thoughts, in a perverse attempt at connecting with another person.

Julian was the first person in a very long time who truly enjoyed talking to him. Did he think Garak was the only one who enjoyed talking to him, too? 

The doctor stirred his drink, still looking morose. This upset him, and now that Garak saw it, he realised he did not like to see Julian upset. 

“You may have noticed that very few people on this station enjoy kanar,” Garak ventured, feeling wholly out of his depth. 

“It can be a bit sludgy for most people’s tastes,” Julian agreed, looking suspicious at the sudden turn in conversation. He grimaced a bit at Garak’s glass. “No offence.” 

“Ah, but is that the fault of the kanar? Must it change itself in order to appeal to the tastes of people who are incapable of appreciating it as it is? Such a change would sacrifice the very thing that many Cardassians find appealing about it.” 

Julian seemed to catch on, and offered a tired smile. “Cardassians like the sludge, I suppose.” 

“I didn’t, when I was a boy, but I grew into it. In fact, it took coming to this station for me to develop a real appreciation for some of its complexity.”

“How come?” 

Garak tilted his head a little. “Perspective. One man’s sludge is another man’s only taste of home.” 

Julian’s expression turned sadder all of a sudden. “You must miss it very much.” 

Garak stilled for just a moment, and then twitched to shake off the thought. That wasn’t the point of this discussion.

“I have often thought that if kanar were not a Cardassian drink, more people would be willing to look past the surface and try it without prejudice. And, in time, would even come to enjoy it.” 

Julian eyed his kanar dubiously. Garak tilted the glass towards him. Reluctantly, it was taken from his hand, and Julian took a cautious sip. The expression he made was not positive. 

“Sludge?” Garak teased. 

“Sludge,” Julian coughed. “I’m sorry, Garak, but that’s revolting.” 

“Or perhaps,” Garak pointedly said, taking it back, “it’s just an acquired taste.” 

The kanar was warm and sweet, and he could see the impression left by Julian’s lips on the other side of the glass. 

Julian made him try the Bloody Mary.

“It’s an acquired taste,” the doctor teased, at the grimace Garak couldn’t suppress. It was not good. 

When the night dwindled down, Julian reported he had an early shift, and stood up.

“Thanks, Garak.” 

“Whatever for?” 

Julian reached over and gently squeezed his forearm where it rested on the table. 

“Perspective.” 

He could tell from the look in his eyes that he hadn’t helped, not really. Comparing him to a drink most people here didn’t like was perhaps a bad move. But Garak was a little bit tipsy from the kanar, and comfort really wasn’t his speciality. 

As Julian walked away, he glanced over at Major Kira and Lieutenant Dax, suddenly feeling a protective surge of annoyance that he didn’t like and couldn’t properly explain. If Julian was more aware, he’d have seen the fondness in Dax’s expression, and the grudging respect in Kira’s that had developed after their forced trip to the mirror universe together. Or perhaps the onus was on them to display it in a way he could understand. 

Garak sighed and stood, suppressing the urge to rub his eyes and push back at the headache. He was too tired and hazy for this.

Julian didn’t feel wanted here, it seemed. 

If it were anyone else, he’d let the problem lie. But he knew exactly how Julian felt, and he found that it was tearing at him quite unexpectedly. 

It wasn’t in his nature to be obvious with affection. He could barely admit feeling it to himself without a whispered argument with an inanimate object. Honesty wasn’t safe. Even a well-kept secret could easily be exploded open for all to see. 

And knowing that an exiled Cardassian spy was emotionally invested in having him around was likely not going to be a great comfort to the man. It was not a particularly comfortable feeling for Garak, either. But when he saw the frown on Julian’s face as he walked past his shop and into the infirmary the next morning, he knew he had to do something. 

#### ***

It was difficult to have much in the way of self-esteem when his parents had disliked him so much as a child that they’d had him illegally altered. 

He had confidence in his abilities, yes. How could he not? He’d been engineered to be perfect. The famous preganglionic nerve and postganglionic fibre mistake had been just as deliberately engineered as his genes, so people didn’t realise just how perfect his mind was. 

But confidence in himself, as a person? Most days he didn’t even feel like a person. They’d messed something up, hadn’t they? Or forgotten it. Or this was just what it was like to be him - a fake. A computer. Inhuman, but without the excuse of not being human in the first place. 

He could read all the books in the world on the subject, but it didn’t make him understand the effortless way other people went about things. His attempts at friendship, at romance- all of it felt artificial. He felt like he was scrambling for purchase on a rock face and no-one was handing him a rope. 

Maybe people sensed that he wasn't quite right, and that was why they didn’t want to connect with him. What if they could tell he was holding something back? A fundamental part of himself that he couldn’t share or it would destroy him. Maybe that was why he and Garak got on so well. He breathed secrets.

It wasn’t the end of the world. His work was more important to him than anything else. So long as he could do his research and help people the way he did now, he could live with being patronised and ignored. It just made him angry, thinking about the life he might have had if his parents hadn’t done this to him.

He could have been normal. 

He was supposed to play darts with Chief O’Brien tonight, but he couldn’t tolerate being tolerated right now, so he told him he had some data to look over for the immunology project on Bajor and holed up in his quarters. It wasn’t strictly a lie. Experience with covering his genetic status had taught him that the best lies were close enough to the truth that no-one would think to look any closer.

There were some illnesses brought over by Cardassians during the Occupation that jumped the species barrier. And the Cardassians, unsurprisingly, hadn’t been very invested in helping Bajor deal with them. They lingered now the Occupation was over, and the Federation was offering help in developing treatments. 

There was a chime at the door and he sighed. 

“Who is it?”

Garak was there. He hadn’t arranged to be. 

“Doctor. May I come in?” 

He walked in anyway without waiting for an answer. 

“I’m not really in the mood, Garak,” he found himself saying.

But Garak merely looked at him analytically for a second. 

“No, but you are in _a_ mood. Are you eschewing all company in favour of sulking, or just mine?” 

“I’m not sulking, I’m working,” Julian said, folding his arms.

“I see.” Garak continued walking around his quarters, examining things he’d seen several times before. “So your decision to barricade yourself in here has nothing to do with your friends?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Garak, unsurprisingly, kept talking about it. 

“Has it occurred to you that the reason you feel that your fellow officers do not reciprocate your affection is not that they dislike you, but that you have made the classic human mistake of assuming that because something is being expressed differently than you expect, it must not be there at all?” 

“I’m sorry?” Julian tiredly said. 

“For example,” Garak continued regardless, sounding not unlike he did when he proselytised about Cardassian literature. “Chief O’Brien was initially irritated by your overtures of friendship. But as he got to know you, that irritation became ironic; a sort of inside joke. I have observed that this kind of teasing banter is a common part of human friendship, especially with the chief. That is how he chooses to show affection.” 

“I know it's just a joke,” Julian tersely said. "But when everyone keeps telling the same one, it stops being funny." It was the difference between people laughing with him, and laughing at him. 

He still hated himself for how childish he sounded. It wasn't as though he could do anything about it. Asking them to stop teasing him would just make things worse.

“But surely the intention is what matters? You were easily able to interpret _my_ intentions when I came to speak with you the other day.” 

“That doesn't mean it was fine for you to storm in yelling at me,” Julian retorted, folding his arms. “Is that how Cardassians show they care, then? Yelling?”

Garak scoffed. “Cardassians do not show they care about anything. Allowing anyone to see you without full control of your emotions is dangerous and irresponsible.” 

He was peering at Kukalaka. But then he sighed, and glanced at Julian with an unreadable, serious expression. 

"It is rather...unpleasant to feel unwanted by the people who are supposed to welcome you."

Of course he understood. 

Julian sighed, and offered what he hoped was an entreating look. Garak seemed to sense what he wanted with only the barest hint, and kissed him. He had seemed a bit uncertain about kissing in the beginning, but over the last few weeks they’d had a lot of practice. 

“In case you’re wondering, that’s how I show affection.”

“I had no idea,” Garak said. deadpan. Up close, he still looked tired. 

Julian lowered his gaze to the bright patterns of Garak’s tunic...thing. He didn’t know what it was, and as usual with Garak’s clothes, he didn’t know how one would get it off him. He just liked touching the rich fabric and following the lines as they intersected. 

“This must all seem a bit stupid to you, then. I mean, you’re…” he didn’t want to say _exiled_ , because it seemed inconsiderate to bring it up, but what else could he say?

“Well, someone quite clever once told me that pain is subjective. What matters is how it affects you, not how it might affect someone else.” 

Julian was surprised that he’d remembered that. It seemed like the kind of thing he’d disregard as soft human nonsense.

Garak hesitated for a moment, then stroked along Julian's eyebrow and down his cheekbone, a gesture he’d done several times now. It occurred to Julian this time to reciprocate the gesture, and realised that on a Cardassian, it meant tracing the ridge that protected his eye. 

“ _Quite_ clever? Is that flattery, Garak?”

“I could always insult you, if you prefer.”

“Oh, shut up,” Julian sniped, and after deliberating whether it was worth looking a bit sappy, slumped against Garak and wound his arms around his waist. 

He wasn’t usually this clingy with people he dated. Well, not physically. He did tend to follow them around like a puppy, especially early on. But he didn’t tend to hold onto them for comfort like this. There was just something about Garak’s solid presence that invited it- though Julian assumed from his posture that he was just as unused to being hugged as Julian was.

“An acquired taste, huh?” He wasn't sure if he meant it a question, a joke or an accusation. 

“Ah- well. One worth acquiring.” Garak’s voice had taken on an endearingly awkward quality. “You know, experience has taught me to be wary of people who make too much of an effort to be likeable. It just means they’re hiding something.”

“Garak, you can't seriously be trying to make me feel better by saying you only trust me because I'm unlikable.”

“Of course not. You have many enjoyable qualities. Your charming inability to pretend, even for a moment, to be anything other than what you are, is merely one of them.” 

It was touching how hard he was trying to be reassuring, in his own way. He was clearly even less used to doing this than hugging, but the effort itself was appreciated. 

Julian decided to spare them both the discomfort of talking about their emotions any further, and pressed his lips to the place just beneath Garak's ear where the ridge started. That got him to relax where hugging didn’t.

“Hmm. You did mention having some work to do.”

“I might have exaggerated.” 

“Surely not! What happened to your moral fortitude? Is it acceptable for Starfleet officers to leave it by the wayside when they’re sulking?” 

“You talk too much,” Julian groaned, and kissed him so he wouldn’t have to argue with him for a few seconds. He could taste strong coffee in his mouth, fresh enough that it must have been finished only minutes before he came here. 

He found his jacket being slowly unzipped, hands untucking his uniform turtleneck and sliding underneath, nice and cool against his skin. Sometimes if he was especially warm, Garak’s cold hands would make his skin tingle at the temperature difference. 

“Alright, how do I get this thing off?” He sighed, peering at Garak’s clothing to see where he ought to unfasten it. 

“It’s far too cold in here to even contemplate undressing, I’m afraid.”

“Fussy,” Julian muttered. “Computer, raise temperature seven degrees. Lights to sixty percent.” 

He didn’t actually mind changing the environment in his quarters for Garak. There was no need to make him put up with conditions that made him uncomfortable when Julian was perfectly at ease with the added warmth and lower lighting his species preferred. 

Garak hummed appreciatively.

“Such a considerate young man.” 

“Now help me with this.” He tugged on Garak’s clothes. 

“Wouldn’t you rather have the satisfaction of working it out on your own?” 

“That’s really not the kind of satisfaction I’m after right now.” 

Thankfully, he relented and Julian watched him unfasten the thing from a hidden seam he’d completely missed and pull it over his head. And then of course he had a thermal shirt under that, which Julian impatiently removed for him and yanked him down onto the sofa on top of him. 

The taste of bitter coffee teased his lips again as rough scales grazed down his chest. A comfortable weight settled across his lap as Garak braced himself on the back of the sofa, and a strand of his hair came loose and tickled Julian’s shoulder when he learned over to nuzzle into his throat. 

It was surprising how quickly this had become normal behaviour after a year of barely being friends. The closeness, the unspoken respect behind every disparaging remark, the cool skin sliding against his. It all felt natural in comparison to the panicked fumbling of other attempts he’d made at dating since breaking up with Palis. 

“You're welcome to keep telling me about my enjoyable qualities,” he breathed, as sparks of warmth travelled down his neck and chest. 

“That doesn’t sound like something I'd do.” 

“Afraid it’ll go to my head?”

“Mm. More that I’ll simply run out of time if I try to describe them all.” 

“That’s shameless flattery and I don't believe for a second that you mean it.”

"Is it not working?”

“You’ve got your hand on my arse. You tell me.” 

A ringing noise cut through the heat.

Blue eyes met his, wide, pupils dilated. 

_Someone at the door._

Garak shot back off his lap, grabbed his clothes from the sofa and darted into the bathroom so silently that if Julian hadn’t been watching while he scrambled to get dressed again himself, he wouldn’t have known he was there. 

_“Julian?”_ It was Dax.

“Just a second!” he shouted back. God, he sounded exactly as bad as he thought he would. Thankfully, there was nothing like the blind terror of discovery to kill the mood, so he could answer the door without any more pressing giveaways. 

“Hi.” Dax was alone, which was a small blessing. 

“Jadzia. Er- hello.”

She looked at his hot face. She looked up at his hair, which he now realised must look exactly like someone had been running their hands through it. She looked down at his unzipped jacket. And most damning of all, she looked past him at the dimmed lights in his quarters. 

“The chief said you’d been off all week, and you blew him off tonight to...work?” 

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Um. I was just- working. Did you need something?” 

“Well, I wanted to see whether you were alright.” She had a knowing smile on. He fervently hoped she didn’t know everything there was to know about the present situation. 

But he also had a warm sort of feeling that had nothing to do with the temperature. Miles had noticed he’d been in a low mood. Dax had been concerned enough come to check on him.

“I am, yes, thank you. Very much so. Very alright, in fact.”

“I can see that. You need a hand with your research?”

“Oh- um. Well. I think I’ll manage. It’s the immunology project, you see, and, um-” 

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said, apparently feeling merciful. 

_Thank God._

“Please. I mean, thank you. I mean, goodnight.” 

She inclined her head, eyebrows raised in her knowing way, and turned to go. “Goodnight, Julian.”

He listened until her footsteps travelled out of range before he banged his head against the closed doors. 

“Am I keeping you from your work after all, doctor?” He jumped. Garak had emerged from the bathroom as silently as he’d entered, half-dressed and amused. 

“That killed the mood a bit, didn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say killed. Severely injured, perhaps.” 

“Good thing there’s a doctor on the scene, then.”

Garak rolled his eyes melodramatically. “I preferred you when you were sulking.”

Julian shrugged off his jacket again and pushed him back onto the sofa. 

“Is my sense of humour not one of my enjoyable qualities?”

“Oh, is that what you call it?” 

“I preferred you when you were being nice.”

Julian settled onto Garak’s lap. The temperature had risen fully now, so it was nice to press himself against cool skin. Hands slid down his sides, rough in texture but always careful and smooth in action. 

Lips against his. The lingering taste of coffee in his mouth. 

“Now, where were we?” Garak asked. 

Julian grabbed his hands and shifted them down to his hips. “Here.”

A low voice, murmuring beside his ear. “Here?” 

Hot electricity tingled at each point of contact. 

It felt good. Stupid thought, really, of course it felt good, there was a man he was attracted to holding him and kissing his neck, but he couldn’t stop thinking it. 

Undoing his pants, hiking them down. He shuffled closer and cold hands slid beneath his underwear, holding his hips.

He tilted up Garak’s chin so he could look at him, kiss him, rest his forehead against his the way he did that night. Just breathing, just for a second. It felt like he was supposed to be here. 

It felt good. 

“Right here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who liked my last fic! I know they don't really resolve much here, but I've got a bit more to edit and post - Alex

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] the subjectivity of pain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28367916) by [GoLBPodfics (GodOfLaundryBaskets)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodOfLaundryBaskets/pseuds/GoLBPodfics)




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